


Catbread Rising

by der_tanzer



Series: Catbread [2]
Category: Riptide (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-20
Updated: 2010-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick and Cody are still away, but Murray isn't lonely anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catbread Rising

**Author's Note:**

> For Oddmonster, Valis2, Tinx_r, and everyone else who believes in the power of Catbread love, and gr8kat, who drove a 1967 Valiant.  
> Major spoilers for the movie Duel.  
> 

Sometime after dark, Murray went to the kitchen to make some soup. He heard Quinlan moving around in the bedroom and then the TV went on in the living room. He'd tried to get the other man to stay in bed and rest his foot, but apparently Quinlan got edgy when he was in one place too long, even in his own home. Besides, there was a baseball game on.

When Murray brought him the soup and crackers, he was sitting on the sofa in a pair of sweatpants, his bandaged foot up on the footlocker that served as a coffee table. Murray gave him his supper, smiling happily when Quinlan invited him to watch the game.

"Just a second. I'll—uh—go get some soup." He was back a minute later with a bowl of his own and sat down a few inches away, tucking his bare feet under him. He hadn't put his t-shirt back on and his lightweight over-shirt hung unbuttoned on his narrow chest. Quinlan couldn't help smiling but tried to hide it. Better not to let the kid think he was too pleased.

"Who's playing?" Murray asked, cautiously tasting his soup.

"Cubs and Yankees."

"Oh, good. I forgot the Cubs were up already."

"I didn't know guys like you followed baseball."

"Guys like—oh, you mean geeks? No, we geeks are very into anything that relies as heavily on statistics as baseball does. It's even more number intensive than football."

"Leave it to you to screw up baseball with math." But it was harder to hide his smile now, and Murray wasn't offended.

"Yes. Anyway, I'm from Chicago, originally, so I've always been a Cubs fan."

"Yeah? Chicago? I thought you were from Baltimore."

Murray thought it was perhaps the first time he'd ever come on anyone who didn't know where he was from, but then he didn't know much about Quinlan, either.

"No. Well, I was stationed in Baltimore during the war, and immediately after. I stayed in long enough to make colonel and then retired. The pension's not much, but I wanted out of the war business."

"Why'd you come here instead of going home to Chi-Town?"

"Lot of reasons," Murray shrugged, shifting into a slightly more comfortable position. "I hate the winters in the Midwest, for one thing. I've always been too cold for my own good. And this is where the action is, computer-wise. Silicon Valley, the whole Apple versus Microsoft thing. Although, cold or not, if I hadn't come here, I'd have gone back to Cambridge and taught at MIT."

"You went to school there, didn't you?"

"Yeah. The Army recruited me when I graduated. Of course I wasn't really old enough, but they were working with the University of Baltimore so I just kind of went to class there until I turned eighteen."

"So you came out here for the weather, but you didn't get on with Apple or Microsoft. Instead you started making video games and shacked up with a couple of vegetables living in the harbor."

"I like making video games. And if you want to be—whatever this is here—ease up on Nick and Cody. They may not want to sleep with me, but they're still the best friends I've ever had. I don't do so well on my own, you know. I forget to eat, I never do laundry, and my phone gets turned off all the time. That's so frustrating. I can hack the company database but I can't remember to pay the bills."

"And those two are the picture of organization?"

"We look out for each other. Hey, the game's on."

Quinlan gave him a look, wondered if he should push it, and went back to eating his soup.

***

They didn't talk much during the game and when it was over, Murray took the dishes back to the kitchen. The game had run to extra innings and it was the middle of the night now. Quinlan looked tired and Murray wasn't sure what to do. The natural thing was to wash the dishes, so he did that first, under the watchful eye of the catbread box. Quinlan came in as he was finishing up and leaned against the counter, keeping his weight off his bad foot.

"What do you think you're doing now, Bozinsky?" The same words he'd spoken so many times, but with a slightly different tone.

"Just cleaning up after myself. You're supposed to keep that foot up, aren't you?"

"What are you, my doctor?"

"Well, that depends on how you look at it. But I've stepped on a lot of things I shouldn't have in my time and the instructions are always the same. Anyway, it's after eleven. You should be in bed."

"Now you're telling me what to do? Who the hell do you think you are?" he asked in mock annoyance. But he did kind of want to know how the kid would answer.

"I'm nobody, Lieutenant. But you're a valuable law enforcement officer and you have to take care of yourself. Come on," he said, putting his arm around the other man and leading him back to the bedroom. "You're not going to work tomorrow, are you?"

"No, I've got the weekend off. Should be in better shape by Monday."

"If you don't get an infection. You have to be awfully careful about that."

"Yeah, I know. Look, Bozinsky, I'm not really your problem. You did me a real favor today and I appreciate it, but that doesn't mean you have to hang around and take care of me. I don't need a nurse."

"No. No, of course not. I don't mean to be a bother, Lieutenant. I'll—uh—just get out of your hair." He stepped into his shoes and grabbed his t-shirt, halfway out of the bedroom before Quinlan could call him back.

"Hey, Bozinsky. Come back tomorrow around noon. You can make sure I get my lunch."

"Oh. Sure, sure. I'll—uh—bring Chinese."

"Good. Oh, and Bozinsky? Button your shirt. You look like you just got laid or something."

"Goodnight, Lieutenant," he said, turning off the living room lights and pausing to button his shirt before stepping out the door.

Faintly, he heard the other man call out, "Night, geek-o."

Murray locked the door and closed it softly behind him.

***

"So what is the deal with the cats?" They were back on the sofa, eating Chinese takeout from paper boxes and watching _Duel_ on TV. Murray was a little nervous about being here again, but Quinlan was too absorbed in watching his long fingers manipulate the chopsticks to notice.

"I told you, my ex-wife left 'em."

"And _I _told _you_, no. I don't believe that. Come on, I told you my whole life story. You can give me this. I promise I won't tell a soul."

"If that was your whole life story, you're even sadder than I thought."

"Well, most of the really good stuff has just happened in the last year or so, and you were there for that. So why do you collect cats? Were they your mother's or something?"

"They were my wife's," he said with a sigh. "Sort of. She collected them all her life and everybody she knew gave them to her for every occasion. Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries… I gave her some, too. We were married twenty years, just long enough to get our son off to college, and then she left. Said I was married to my job, and she was sick of being the other woman."

"But she took her cats," Murray said quietly. He didn't know much about women, but he knew they didn't walk out on a lifetime collection as easily as they did a twenty year marriage.

"All except the ones I gave her. Left about thirty of the damned things, including that breadbox."

"And they multiplied?"

"Are you laughing at me, pencil neck? Because I'll snap you like a twig."

"No, I'm not laughing." He picked at his noodles and Quinlan was distracted again by the graceful hands. And that mouth—but they weren't quite there yet.

"She left right before Christmas, and for some reason, I bought her one that year. I just didn't give it to her. I don't know why I kept buying them. Habit, I guess." He darted another look at Murray, who was still focused on his lunch, took a drink from his beer and finally told the truth. "They looked kind of lonely, too. The ones that were left."

Murray understood now. He'd been trying to fill the emptiness in his life, not just with things, but with things that reminded him of his wife. His family. People who had no idea where he even lived anymore.

"Where's your son now?"

"New York. He's a stock broker. I haven't seen him in a couple years. I guess he's—oh, he'd be about thirty by now."

Murray didn't mention that he was thirty-three. Nor did he ask Quinlan how old he was. That was what separated men from women, and later, when Quinlan realized it, he would be grateful.

"You must be proud of him," was all he said.

"Yeah. He's a good kid. He's no genius, like you, but he doesn't live on a boat, either."

"What's wrong with living on a boat? People save their whole lives to retire like that."

"Sure, on a real yacht, alone. Not a forty foot tuna boat with two other guys."

"Fifty-four feet," he said mildly and stole a piece of chicken from Quinlan's box. "And it's a good life. No traffic, the sea rocks you to sleep at night, and you can pick up and disappear any time you want. It's great, going away and taking your home along."

"So why didn't your buddies take the boat to Mexico?"

"Well, that would have left me homeless for the week. They wouldn't do that. Not when they could just take the _Mimi_."

"Hmm. What are they gonna say about you hanging around with me?"

"I—I really don't know what I'm going to tell them. They won't like it much, I don't think. I had a message from them last night but I didn't call back. I'll have to call tonight, though, or they'll be worried."

"Keep you on a pretty short leash, do they?" he asked, stealing some noodles in return.

"They're just trying to look out for me. Maybe they'll relax some if they think—" He stopped abruptly and ate some more noodles.

"If they think what? Come on, spill." Quinlan felt like he was owed quite a bit more for revealing the cat secret.

"Well, you know—nothing. Forget it. Hey, what's that guy's name again? The one driving the car?" He pointed with his chopsticks at the TV and Quinlan's eyes were caught again by the languid gesture. God, he wanted those hands.

"Dennis Weaver," he said absently. "You figure those broccoli brains will cut you some slack if I'm keeping an eye on you."

Murray shrugged, keeping his eyes determinedly on the TV where Carey Loftin was trying to shove Dennis Weaver's Plymouth into a train.

"My sister, Melba, had one of those cars when she was in high school."

"Big engine in the Valiant. Got shit for gas mileage."

"That's how I remember it. Lieutenant, I'm not asking you for anything. You get to feeling better, the guys come home, and I can disappear. Just say the word, you know? I don't want to—to mess up your life."

"Don't be such a chowder head. I don't give a shit what your friends think. But hanging around with me ain't gonna win _you_ any points with them."

"They don't much care what I do, so long as I'm relatively happy and don't get into trouble. But I guess it'd be kind of hard for them to believe that you and I are—friends."

"That the word you're gonna use?"

"Unless you have a better one."

Quinlan nodded silently and put his empty chicken carton on the footlocker. Murray ate a few more noodles and offered him the remainder.

"You ought to finish that yourself. You don't eat enough, kid."

"Small stomach," Murray said, putting the box on the footlocker next to the other. "I'll be hungry again in a couple hours."

"Your sister," he said, his eyes drawn back to the battered Valiant on TV. "She's the hot broad with all the hair?"

"Yes, my sister is 'the hot broad'. And don't even think about it. She's never in this country anyway."

"Aw, I'm too old for a girl like her."

"She's two years younger than me."

"Girls are different. You're not gonna say I took advantage of you, are you?"

Murray laughed sharply, covering his mouth with one hand.

"No offense, Lieutenant, but anybody'd believe you took advantage of me before they would her. She'd eat you for dinner, hang your head on the wall and tan your hide for a rug."

"I never liked brainy girls anyway."

"They say geniuses make better lovers," he remarked, smiling a little and not taking his eyes off the TV.

"Yeah? Who's they?"

"_Reader's Digest_, I guess. I don't know. I never slept with a genius."

"Have you—uh—been with a lot of men?"

"A couple. Not many women, either. I'm not exactly a big time romancer, you know. Sex is mostly in the brain—the emotional response and chemical reactions, not to mention the power of memory and imagination—but people still look at the body first."

"Yeah, well, one thing I've noticed in thirty some years of military service and police work is that people are stupid."

"Do you really believe that?" Murray asked, genuinely curious.

"It's true. Mostly, at least. People are stupid, and so far as I can tell, they're all about the same in bed."

"That's interesting. I suppose I'll have to do some more research. Of course, it's difficult for me to research anything that doesn't involve a computer."

"Figures." Quinlan pulled a beer out of the cooler that sat on the floor between them and handed it over. Murray hadn't asked for it, but he didn't see the harm. He cracked it and swallowed half, then set the can on the footlocker.

"Might be something to it, though," Quinlan went on. "You're a genius and you're not bad."

"You can tell that already?"

The lieutenant gave him a strangely appraising look that made Murray shiver and reach for his beer.

"Yeah," he said shortly. There was a rather lengthy silence, and then Quinlan spoke again. "The one thing I never could figure about this movie is why he didn't beat the train across the tracks and leave the truck behind. He could have made it and had all kinds of time to get away."

"You're right, the Valiant had great acceleration. I never understood that, either. Funny, I never thought I'd be sitting around talking cars with you, of all people."

"I never thought you talked cars at all. But, I gotta be honest, that hasn't been the biggest surprise."

Murray grinned and finished off his beer as Quinlan cracked another. He offered it but Murray declined, still grinning.

"You don't have to get me drunk."

Quinlan gave him a wink that crinkled his scarred cheek and was somehow boyish at the same time. They sat in companionable silence until Dennis Weaver finally ran his Plymouth off the cliff and tricked the truck into following it. As he lay in the dirt laughing hysterically, Murray picked up the remote and turned off the TV. He took off his glasses, laid them neatly on the end table, then rose and knelt between Quinlan's knees.

"No, keep your feet up," he whispered when the older man tried to move. "Be comfortable, it's okay." He unbuckled Quinlan's belt, slipped the button on his fly and eased the zipper down, freeing his stiffening cock. Murray's lithe fingers wrapped around it and he bowed his head, kissing softly until it began to weep. Quinlan gasped, his strong hands gripping the back of Murray's neck, holding on harder than he meant to. Harder than he needed to, as Murray had no intention of stopping. The soft groans were music to his ears and he sucked hungrily, taking the thick cock deep, massaging it with his tongue as Quinlan thrust against him.

Murray could have used his hands to restrain the motion but he didn't. There was something freeing in allowing himself to be controlled, allowing the other man to hold his head and fuck his mouth with gentle fury. Suddenly Murray was moaning, too, and the combination of lustful sounds and the vibration in his throat pushed Quinlan over the edge. His hands twined in Murray's hair but some of the strength went out of his arms, telling him that he could pull away. But Murray stayed with him, swallowing hard, taking everything he had to give. When the hands on his head went limp Murray licked him clean, then sat back on his heels and ran his hands through his hair.

"Maybe there's something to that genius thing after all," Quinlan said, a little breathlessly. He wondered if he was getting too old for this, but Murray's glowing eyes kept him from bringing it up. Still smiling, Murray unfolded himself and stood.

"Should I be going?"

"No, you shouldn't be going. Idiot." Quinlan grabbed his hand and pulled him back down on the sofa. "I'm not an animal, you know."

"No, I—I know that."

"Do you?" He did up his fly and then stunned Murray by putting an arm around his shoulders. For a moment the skinny man sat stiffly, but when Quinlan applied a little pressure Murray relaxed and lay down across his lap. The muscled thighs were comfortable, the scent of Skin Bracer as warm and friendly as the hand upon his chest. After a while the heavy hand slid down his belly and under his shirt, stroking the soft skin almost absently.

"You're always cold, aren't you?"

"Most of the time. I get sunburned a lot because I can't tell how hot it really is. Especially if there's a breeze."

"Shouldn't be cold now."

"I'm sorry."

"What are you apologizing for? Idiot." But he didn't sound angry, and if his thumb on Murray's nipple was any indication, he intended to warm things up a bit. Murray just sighed and pressed his cheek against the hard bulge of Quinlan's stomach. He knew when not to take offense.

Quinlan's hand slid down the length of Murray's body and unbuckled his belt deftly, as if it were something he did often for other men. Murray wondered vaguely if it was a skill required in the police department and then the hand was inside his jeans, teasing and exploring, wiping all thoughts from his mind. It was so good, so rough and gentle and strange and familiar and, oh, so just what he needed.

He lay as still as he could and let Quinlan push his clothes out of the way, dimly hearing a soft chuckle and not asking what it meant. The rough, gentle hand caressed his thighs, rolled his testicles between thick fingers, paused and squeezed when he moaned just to make him moan again. Then those oddly skilled fingers were gripping his shaft and Murray had to thrust. He wasn't proud of the mewling sounds he made, or the frank need that he was helpless to disguise, but Quinlan seemed to understand.

He kept up an easy rhythm, letting Murray's stuttering thrusts set the pace, listening for the deep hitch in his breathing that would signal the end. When it came, he tightened his grip and ran his thumb lightly around the sensitive crown. Murray cried out softly, still trying for restraint, and lost it completely as his orgasm enveloped him.

Eyes closed, and out of focus anyway without his glasses, he heard that soft chuckle again and was helpless not to laugh. Dimly, he felt the other man cleaning him off with napkins from the Chinese restaurant, and then the afghan from the back of the sofa was spread over him. Moving languidly, he fixed his jeans without sitting up, and when Quinlan slipped his hand under the blanket, he took it and went quietly to sleep.

***

The phone was ringing when Murray let himself into the salon and he moved quickly to answer before the machine could pick up.

"Boz, is that you? Where the hell have you been? I've been calling all day."

He looked at the flashing light on the machine and realized that was probably true.

"Hi, Cody. How's Mexico? Are you having a good time?"

"Mexico's fine. And no, I'm not having a good time. I've been calling you all day, remember?"

"Yes, well, you shouldn't be doing that. You're on vacation."

"Murray, are you ducking me? Did something happen to my boat?"

"No, Cody, the boat's fine. I was just—well, I've been over at Lieutenant Quinlan's a lot. I ran into him at the hospital—did you know Stella had her baby?"

"That's nice, but I thought you said you were at Quinlan's. Do we have a bad connection?" Then, distantly, "Nick, turn that off. I'm trying to hear Murray."

"Well, like I said, I—uh—ran into him at the hospital. He got hurt on the job and he needed some help around the house. I've just been—you know—fixing him meals and—uh—watching TV. The Cubs beat the Yankees last night."

"Murray, are you screwing with me?"

"What? No. What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're not making any sense. Here, talk to Nick if you don't want to talk to me."

"Hey, Murray. What are you doing to Cody, man? We're on vacation and you're giving him a stroke at long distance rates."

So he went over it all again. Nick was no more believing, but at least he didn't argue. He just assumed that either Quinlan was setting Murray up for something, or—but there was no or. They were due back on Monday, but Nick decided right then that he'd had enough vacation. They'd be leaving tomorrow, as soon as the sun was up. Better to cut a day off the vacation than leave Murray to handle whatever mess Quinlan was getting him into.

"All right, Boz, it sounds like you're keeping busy," he said neutrally. "It's been raining like hell here the last couple days, though, so we're probably gonna cut our losses and come home in the morning. Are you gonna be around?"

"Yeah, probably. I—I said I'd go over there at lunchtime, though. Make sure he gets something to eat. But if you're here before eleven I should be home."

"Murray Bozinsky, you are a true saint. We'll see you tomorrow then."

"Yeah, tomorrow. 'Bye, Nick. Tell Cody I said goodnight." He hung up, wondering why he suddenly felt so alone. They were coming home early. For him. He didn't believe that line about the rain at all. It was because they were worried about him. But there was a Clint Eastwood movie marathon tomorrow afternoon and he'd never seen all of _For A Few Dollars More_.

It was almost more than he could admit to himself, that he'd rather watch TV in Quinlan's cat filled apartment than hang out on the boat with his two best friends, but his heart said it was true. He liked being the center of attention. He liked being the one who was held and caressed and—loved. Not that Quinlan loved him, he didn't have any illusions about that, but it felt a little like it sometimes. And it felt good.


End file.
